Five Times Sherlock was Called an Idiot
by ApproximatelyPrecise
Summary: And one time he didn't have to be told.  Rated T for drug use.
1. Age Eight

Hi! This is an idea that I saw on a fic by Fool Who Follows (Thanks for pointing it out to me that it was you, BTW) and I couldn't stop thinking about it and just had to write it. So here it is, and I hope you all like it!

Sherlock isn't mine.

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><p><strong><strong>Five Times Sherlock was Called an Idiot<strong>** (and one time he didn't have to be told)

1. Age Eight

"Holmes the freak!" Sherlock sighed and rolled his eyes. The speaker was a boy in his class with blond hair and blue eyes, and Sherlock was pretty sure he had a name but god knows what that was.

"Freak! Freak! Holmes is a freak!" The nameless Neanderthal chanted and four other boys joined in. The group was following Sherlock around, trying to get him to react. They did this often. Sometimes Sherlock would humour them and fight them out of boredom. Not this time.

This time Sherlock was experimenting and it was more important than they were. That morning he had left gin-soaked breadcrumbs in the playground and he was now going back to where he left them to see if the pigeons in the area were acting any differently. That is, if the screaming group of stupid children didn't scare them all away.

"Would you **please** stop?" Sherlock finally cried in the most irritated tone he could muster.

"FREAK! FREAK! HOLMES IS A FREAK!" They yelled, ignoring him completely. One of the boys (Green eyes, rich parents, slight limp in his left leg, classmate of Sherlock's for the past two years, name unknown) stepped up to him, grabbed his hair and shouted "**FREAK**!" into his ear. Sherlock pushed him away. He should have known that asking nicely wouldn't work.

"That's enough! I'm trying to do something serious, and if you monkeys could leave me alone that would be much appreciated!" Sherlock spat.

"Did you hear that, Robert?" The green-eyed, nameless classmate said to the blond haired one, "He called us monkeys!" The blond, nameless classmate called Robert guffawed. Then he stepped up and spoke too close to Sherlock's face.

"We're monkeys?" He asked, an obnoxious smile plastered on his face, "Have you seen yourself, you freak? Spending all your breaks in the trees watching other people. Neil," He said, addressing the green-eyed unnamed classmate, "Did you hear that? The idiot called us monkeys!" Sherlock's eyes widened.

"What did you say?" Sherlock asked. He was the idiot? He was the one trying to do science! They were the ones following him around screaming! And **HE** was the idiot?

"You're an idiot, Holmes!" Green-eyes said, "Sherlock Freak Idiot Holme- OUCH!" Sherlock's fist connected with his face so quickly that he hit the floor before he could even shout. The blond classmate charged at him, ready to punch, but Sherlock was too quick for him.

"I'm not an idiot!" Sherlock dodged Robert's punch and kicked him in the stomach. "I'm not!" At that moment the other three boys ran at him and Sherlock found himself thinking that perhaps this was not the best idea after all.

It took three teachers to break up the battle. Sherlock ended up with a bleeding nose, countless bruises and two weeks of detention. For some reason, the teachers failed to accept "They called me an idiot" as an excuse for starting World War III in the school playground.

"I'm tired of having my intelligence questioned by people who have the IQ of a retarded potato," he told the nurse as she was bandaging one of his many bleeding scratches, "I'm not an idiot". The nurse had three children and a cat, had recently lost a parent and also had brown hair.

"Then perhaps trying to single-handedly fight five other boys is not best way to prove it, Holmes."

Sherlock did not stop sulking for a week after that.

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><p>Did you like it? Hope you did =D<br>I will try to update as soon as possible.

**PLEASEPLEASEPLEASE review!**


	2. Age Twenty One

Wow, it's been a week already! Time flies when you're struggling with a chapter =P

Thank you so much to all the people who reviewed the first chapter! I try to reply to every review, but sometimes it's a little difficult, so if you reviewed and did not get a response, please know that I did read it and I really appreciate the fact that you took the time to write a comment =D.

Anyway, I really hope you like this chapter.

Sherlock isn't mine.

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><p><span>2. Age Twenty-One<span>

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.  
><em>

Sherlock wanted to destroy whatever it was that was making the noise.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.  
><em>

Seriously.

_BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.  
><em>

Sherlock tried to say "Would someone please turn off this racket, as it is making my ears bleed?" but it came out as more of an incoherent moan. What was wrong with him? He remembered being high. Was he still high? He didn't feel high. He mostly felt awful.

"Nice to see you're awake." Mycroft. Bloody fucking fantastic.

"Whaddoyowant?" Sherlock slurred. He felt like there was a hyperactive squirrel in his head that was chewing on his brain.

"To see that you're alive and well, shout at you a little and go back to my busy job," Sherlock rubbed his eyes.

"Step one completed, then," He said sarcastically. He cracked his eyes open and looked around. He was lying in a white bed in a white room. There was light coming in through the window, though Sherlock was pretty sure that last time he was conscious it was dark. He noticed an IV tube in his arm.

"I'm in hospital," Sherlock stated the obvious, "Why?"

"Cocaine overdose," Mycroft replied with a very noticeable edge to his voice. His brother was wearing a tailored black suit that did a very good job of hiding the five pounds he had gained since Sherlock had last seen him.

"Oh… Dull," Sherlock said. He'd overdosed on cocaine? How ridiculous of him. How commonplace and boring. He saw a Styrofoam cup full of water on his bedside table and drank about half of it.

"Dull? Your heart stopped twice on your way here," Mycroft said and Sherlock did not reply. He wanted his brother to go away and stop staring at him disapprovingly. Mycroft waited for a response for about ten seconds, and then continued.

"Is this what you want your life to be like, Sherlock?" He asked. He still sounded calm, but Sherlock knew him well enough to tell that he was angry.

"Spare me the preaching."

"Do you know how upset Mummy was when she heard you nearly died?"

"Do you know how upset Mummy was when you spent last Christmas at work?" Sherlock retorted, "Stop being a hypocrite, Mycroft. You upset her as much as I do." Mycroft's brow furrowed and his eyes hardened. Sherlock smiled in satisfaction. There were not many things that could visibly annoy his brother, but comments about their mother's dissatisfaction usually did the trick.

"Well at least she knows I'm not a failure," Mycroft said sharply and wiped the smile off Sherlock's face.

"I'm not a failure!" He cried and made his head hurt even more.

"No?" Mycroft spat, "You dropped out of university, Sherlock. You were the best in your year! What were you thinking?" Sherlock had been wondering when he would get this talk. Two weeks ago he walked out of his Chemistry B.A. studies. He had spent most of his time since either sitting on roofs and smoking or lying in parks, high on cocaine.

"Uni was boring," Sherlock muttered.

"And getting high in parks is so much more exciting," Mycroft shot back, his voice thick with sarcasm. He only ever got this cynical when he was very angry. Sherlock did not deign to answer. "Is there nothing I can do to convince you to stop poisoning yourself?"

"I don't want to stop." Now that he came to think about it, he could really use some cocaine right about now. If only Mycroft would leave.

"Yes, I'm sure you only take drugs because you **want **to, Sherlock." Stupid Mycroft. Stupid, condescending, irritating Mycroft.

"I'm not addicted." Yes he was. He was addicted beyond words, and Mycroft probably knew it as well. He was still not going to admit it to him, though.

"This might come as a surprise, Sherlock, but there's a limit to how interesting your life can be when you're a homeless junkie. Cocaine might be very exciting now, but you will build up a tolerance soon enough. You need to find another way to stimulate your mind."

"Nothing ever could." Sherlock muttered. He lay back down and studied a small spot on the floor.

"Don't be ridiculous, of course there's **something-**"

"**Nothing. Ever. Could.**" As if he chose to be so bored. As if he hadn't tried everything he could think of and realized that the drugs were his only choice. Mycroft turned to leave the room.

"Idiot." It was hardly audible, but Mycroft had clearly said it. He used the same tone one might use to describe the weather. He didn't sound angry, or disappointed, or even worried. He said in the most matter-of-fact tone Sherlock could imagine and Sherlock wondered if he should find it more annoying or less.

"I'm not an idiot," Sherlock answered automatically. That was a bad idea. If he had kept quiet Mycroft would have left, and he could sneak out of the hospital and get his fix like he really wanted to. Instead, he now had to sit through Mycroft's response, and his head was killing him.

"Someone who's not an idiot can at least measure out the correct dosage of cocaine. Overdose again and I'll force you into rehab." Mycroft replied darkly and left without waiting for an answer.

'_Ouch_,' Sherlock thought. Mycroft's comment actually stung a little, mostly because he was right. Overdosing **was** stupid. Sherlock rose from his bed, looked around to ensure that there was no one watching, and carefully pulled the IV needle out of his arm. He spotted his large, brown boots at the corner of the room and pulled them on quietly. Then he grabbed the remaining water from his bedside table and climbed the stairs to the roof. It was a rather cold day, and the wind whipped Sherlock as he opened the (thankfully, unlocked) door to the roof of the hospital. He ignored the weather and sat down, his back against the concrete border. Then, he carefully peeled away the sole from the inside of his left shoe and tuned it over. People often wondered why a tall man like Sherlock would wear such thick soled boots. The truth was that they made fantastic hiding places. A nylon bag containing a small syringe and a packet of white powder fell from the partly hollow sole and into his hand. Sherlock added the white power to the cup and mixed it carefully.

'_I should probably stop,_' He realized. Even the thought was painful. Sherlock carefully unthreaded the shoelace from one of his boots and tied it above the elbow of his left arm, using his teeth to tighten the knot. _'I'm already taking twice the amount I took when I started. I will die if I keep this up._' But he knew he had no choice. He would rather jump off a bridge than be bored, and cocaine wasn't boring.

"Maybe I am an idiot for being so impractical," He told the clouds above his head, "but I can't go back to Uni," He drew some of the solution from the cup into the syringe.

"And I can't stop taking cocaine." He wondered where he was going to get his next fix after this one. He had another stash in his violin case. Maybe he could get Mycroft to bring it to the hospital.

"And I could never find a job that would keep me interested." He carefully inserted the needle into his vein and pushed the plunger slowly into the barrel.

"Because such a job does not exist." He lay back and sighed with pleasure as the drug started taking effect. His mind was racing and his heart was beating out of his chest. The weather did not feel quite so cold any more. Suddenly, he knew he could do this. He didn't need a job or a place to live. He didn't need qualifications or money. He didn't need Mycroft's advice because Mycroft was wrong.

Unfortunately, being the intelligent person that he was, he was perfectly aware that these thoughts were entirely drug induced and based on no substantial facts whatsoever.

He also had full intention of enjoying them while they lasted, and taking more cocaine when they stopped.

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><p>Did you like it? This is my first time writing an adult Sherlock, and I really tried to make him in character. Tell me if I succeeded!<p>

I had to do tons of drug related research for this chapter. If my parents decide to check my browsing history now they will really worried about me XD

Please review!


	3. Age Twenty Five, Part One

I'm **so** sorry for the delay. Real life got in the way. Anyway, this chapter came out too long so I cut it in half. The next part will be up in a few days (it will. I promise. It's already written and everything).

Thank you to everyone who reviewed the previous chapter. I try to reply to everyone, but if I somehow missed your comment know that I read and appreciate every single one of them, and that you probably made me very happy.

Anyway, I really hope you like this, and don't forget to review =)

I don't own Sherlock.

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><p><strong><span>3. Age 25, Part 1<span>**

Sherlock stumbled upon the crime scene by accident. It happened under a large bridge that Sherlock called "Home" (although, even after two years he could not say it without a hint of irony). Sherlock was walking through the area when he saw a police perimeter. He approached it to get a closer look.

A man was hanging from one of the lower rafters. His tongue was swollen and hanging from his mouth in a way that was almost comical, and his skin was discoloured. He was muscular, and Sherlock could deduce from his disproportionately large leg muscles that he probably played football. His right shoe was more worn out than his left. Sherlock spotted an upturned chair lying behind him and a little to the right. It was not the first murder he had ever seen, but seeing as it was very cleverly disguised as a suicide, it certainly was the most interesting. Sherlock ducked under the perimeter and went to take a closer look. His eyes were wide with wonder as he inspected every inch of the body with his eyes. There were no needle marks and no signs of coercion. How did they do it, then? He was really enjoying this. His eyes felt sharper and his heart was pounding in his chest. He felt something that he hadn't felt in years: the excitement of doing something truly intriguing. Suddenly, he heard a shout behind him and found himself in handcuffs.

-o-

_Ten minutes later_

"What were you thinking?" The detective who was speaking to him was a smoker, married with children, and probably in charge of the investigation. His badge declared his name to be D.I. Greg Lestrade. Sherlock said nothing. He was sitting on a crate near the perimeter, his feet dangling off the edge and his hands handcuffed behind his back. Apparently, waltzing into crime scenes without a permit was illegal.

"When we handcuffed you, you said it was a murder. How did you know?" Sherlock met Lestrade's eyes and gave him a glare that could melt steel. "Come on, tell me."

"Let me go," Sherlock hissed. He felt extremely undignified tied up like this.

"I can't."

"Then I won't tell you," Lestrade bit his lip. Sherlock knew it would take more than this to break him, and so he tried something else,

"Everyone thinks this is a suicide," he said insinuatingly," Think about the reputation you'll get for solving a murder that no one else was clever enough to notice," Lestrade's expression didn't change. Apparently, Sherlock had stumbled upon the only detective in Scotland Yard who did not constantly think about their reputation. He decided to change tactics:

"Think about the victim's poor family who will never get closure. Think about the murderer who will go unpunished." He took one glance at the detective's face and knew that he'd won. He heard a _click_ as the handcuffs were removed.

"Talk," It was almost pitiful, how desperate the detective sounded.

"Thank you," Sherlock said sarcastically. He could tell that the other man hadn't smoked in a while, so he took a pack of cigarettes from his coat pocket and made a long show of lighting one. Watching Lestrade twitch was immensely satisfying.

"The victim is quite clearly a footballer, and one who uses his right foot a lot more often than his left," he started, "Now, a man committing suicide probably wouldn't spend too much time worrying about what leg he was going to use to kick the chair, so our victim would have probably used his right leg, because that's what he would be used to."

"How could you possibly know that he didn't?" The other man asked. He honestly tried to look angry at Sherlock, but his interest showed through his frown. He was intrigued by what Sherlock was saying. Sherlock smiled. Hardly anyone ever took him seriously. This was a fun change.

"Have you ever tried kicking a chair you were standing on?" He asked, taking a long drag on his cigarette, "Think about it. Where would the chair go if you kicked it with your right leg?" Lestrade gave Sherlock a confused look.

"Where would it **go**?" He repeated Sherlock's question, "What do you mean? It would go backwards, obviously..." He stopped to think and his eyes suddenly lit up, "Backwards and to the left!" Then the excitement on his face turned to horror.

"Oh god, **stop**!" He called out to his subordinates and ran back to the perimeter, "Don't touch anything! Don't move anything!" Sherlock was left on the crate with a small smile on his face. He felt great. He couldn't wait for Lestrade to come back so they could continue the investigation. The detective **had** to let him get a closer look at the body. There **had** to be more clues, and Sherlock would find them. He watched as Lestrade observed the body from all sides. Finally he returned, looking sombre. Apparently, he wasn't as excited about murders disguised as suicides as Sherlock was.

"You're right," He said grimly, "The chair fell to the wrong side. It doesn't add up."

"Well, now that you believe me we can think about the real investigation," Sherlock started. Pieces were coming together in his mind. He didn't even notice the huge grin that spread across his face. He jumped to his feet and started to pace in front of Lestrade.

"The murderer must have used some sort of drug to sedate the victim. Otherwise he wouldn't have been able to hang him without his body showing signs of coercion…" Sherlock felt as if he was on fire. This was way better than cocaine. He practically _skipped_ to the edge of the perimeter and stared at the corpse.

"This is not a random crime. Someone wanted this man out of the way without alerting suspicion-"

"Obviously, he would have had enemies," The detective interrupted. Sherlock felt like a jet aeroplane that suddenly hit a mountain.

"What?" How could this dim-witted man know something that Sherlock failed to pick up?

"Well, this is Aaron Mathews. He played football for England. There's a whole list of people who would benefit from his death. Why do you think they called the whole Homicide Department to investigate an apparent suicide?"

"Oh," Sherlock said, sounding sulkier than he hoped he would, "Well, obviously I had no way of knowing he was **famous**…" He stared at the detective as if he cheated by having general knowledge, "Then we should obviously check for poison-"

"Wait, we?" Lestrade interrupted, but Sherlock ignored him.

"Because it's quite possible that he was dead, or almost dead, before he was hanged-"

"Who's **we**?"

"We should also check for sedatives, and then when the results come back, check who would be able to acquire the substan-"

"**HEY**!" Sherlock stopped again. If glares could kill, Lestrade would have been reduced to a soggy mush. "Thank you for your insights, but that's all they are. I can't let you **join** the investigation or anything." Sherlock's heart sank and he tried not to let it show. The detective thanked him for his help and left. An hour later the body was removed, the police was gone, and Sherlock was smoking his third consecutive cigarette while high.

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><p>Did you like it? Part two will be up by the end of the week.<p>

**PLEASE REVIEW**. It makes my life.


	4. Age Twenty Five, Part Two

Is it still Saturday where you live? Let's hope it is.

Anyway, I hope you like part two of chapter 3. The whole chapter came out quite long compared to the others, but I admit I do like it (which is special, since I usually hate my own work).

Sherlock isn't mine.

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><p><strong><span>3. Age 25, Part 2<span>**

_One week later_.

The violin's melancholic notes reverberated off the thick piers of the bridge. Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed his fingers to play whatever it was that he was playing. He could not remember its name, but it was one of his favourite pieces; one he had been playing since his university days. He played about five minutes of it before he heard a quiet cough to his right. He was not expecting that. The violin screeched as Sherlock jumped and snapped his head up to see who it was. He recognized the Detective Inspector from a week ago.

"God, what are you **on**?" Lestrade exclaimed when he saw Sherlock's face. Sherlock assumed that his pupils were extremely dilated. As he spent a lot of his time high, they often were.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock replied angrily. How long had he been standing there? How much did he hear? Sherlock knew it was stupid, but he felt as if the other man had stumbled upon something very private. Lestrade sighed and sat on a crate opposite Sherlock.

"I'm here with an offer, Mr…" The man waited for an answer. Sherlock placed his violin in its battered-looking case, snapped the lid shut and turned to Lestrade.

"Sherlock Holmes. Call me Sherlock," Lestrade looked at Sherlock for a second, as if trying to figure out if he was kidding. Then he probably decided that it doesn't matter and continued.

"Sherlock, okay. Well, basically, you were right about the Mathews murder. It wasn't suicide. We found poison in his bloodstream in the post-mortem and have arrested a rival player in connection with the murder," Sherlock felt a rush of self-satisfaction go through him. He knew he was right the second he saw the body, but the fact that the police followed his advice was quite satisfying.

"What's the offer?" He asked, his fingers steepled and pressed to his lips.

"Well, this case… We would have missed it without you."

"I'm aware." Why couldn't this man get to the point?

"And that got me thinking about all the cases we've probably missed in the past, and how many we will miss in the future… Not to mention all the cases that simply go cold because Scotland Yard fails to solve them…" Sherlock saw where this was going, and he liked it very much. He kept his face blank, though. Four years on the streets taught a man to keep his feelings to himself.

"Yes?"

"Well, perhaps you could sometimes… Consult. Assist. Oh, I don't know." Lestrade sounded frustrated. He obviously didn't want to do this. "My point is, it took you thirty seconds to see what everyone on the scene missed, so I thought that maybe sometimes I could let you into crime scenes and you could help." Sherlock expected a lot less. This was beyond his wildest dreams.

"You'll let me into crime scenes?" This was perfect. It could not be more perfect. Sherlock remembered how good it felt to connect the dots in the Mathews case. Perhaps, _perhaps_, he might have found the only job that in the world that would not be boring for him.

"I'm only asking because we need the help," Lestrade tried to keep the shame out of his voice with very partial success. "I only want you as a consultant. I can't pay you." Whatever.

"So I'll be a detective, but I'll only work on the interesting cases? No paperwork, office politics, or boring, predictable crimes?"

"Or paychecks."

"Bah!" Sherlock scoffed, "Who cares about paychecks?" What was money when he could solve crimes? This was brilliant. Lestrade gave him a look that said that **he** definitely cared about paychecks.

"Sherlock Holmes, _Consulting Detective_," Sherlock muttered quietly. He liked the title, not to mention that there was a small part of him that just enjoyed having _**a**_ title. As fun as it was to play the violin and get high, he was aware that people weren't admiring him half as much as they ideally would when he was homeless and with no job. It even had a nice ring to it. Lestrade practically leapt with horror.

"What? **No**! You only get to come to the crime scenes! I don't want this to be a high profile thing. It's not a **job**. You don't get a **title.**" Sherlock beamed at him in return. Lestrade buried his face in his palms.

"Sherlock," He said, sounding a little like a school teacher explaining something to a child, "There is no such thing as a consultant detective." Sherlock rose to his feet, slung his violin case over his shoulder and started walking away.

"There is now," he said. It never occurred to him that instead of trying to find a job that suited him, he could make one up, "You know where to find me when you need me."

"Wait, there's one condition," Lestrade said.

"What is it?" Sherlock did not bother to stop walking.

"You have to be clean if I'm going to let you help." Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"You can't enforce that if I don't officially work for you," He was not going to get clean. He didn't want it, and deep down (although he would **never** say it **ever**), he really believed that he couldn't.

"I **can** refuse to let you into crime scenes. Look, Sherlock, letting you help the police is not entirely legal as it is. Letting you into crime scenes when you're **high** is too much," Sherlock was very quiet. Lestrade moved to stand next to him.

"How often will there be cases?" Sherlock practically whispered. Solving crimes was more fun than cocaine, but then again, he probably won't have cases five times a day.

"Once a week, once a month, once a year. I don't know. You have to be clean, anyway." Sherlock pictured what withdrawal would be like. It would be horrible. And what would he do between cases, anyway? The only reason he could tolerate living under the damn bridge is because he spent most of his time high and unrealistically optimistic as a result. Lestrade started walking towards the main road, where he probably parked his car.

"You're an idiot," He said, his back turned to the homeless man.

"I'm not an idiot." Lestrade turned.

"I'm giving you something extraordinary, and you're thinking of refusing! I saw you when you deduced Mathew's murder. You looked ecstatic, and I **know** it wasn't the drugs that made you that happy. You enjoy it. I'm giving you an opportunity that nobody else would be crazy enough to even consider. If you weren't an idiot, you would throw away the garbage that's frying your brain and take it. Do yourself a favour and clean yourself up." Sherlock didn't respond and Greg continued,"surely, someone in your family could help you."

"What makes you think that my family can offer any support at all?" Sure, the only reason Sherlock was homeless was that he vehemently refused to return home or receive money from his brother, but Lestrade didn't know that.

"You're a violin virtuoso, speak like you went to Oxbridge and wear a coat that must've cost a thousand quid. You come from a good family." Sherlock's eyes widened to the size of dinner plates. Did Lestrade just **deduce** at him? Lestrade noticed the expression and returned an indignant one.

"Oh, come on. Don't give me that look. You're not the only one with eyes," the man took out a note from his pocket and quickly scribbled his number on it. He handed it to Sherlock, who took it while trying to look apathetic.

"Call me when you're ready to accept my offer," Lestrade said. Then he left, leaving Sherlock feeling a little like an idiot, and a little like he could really use another hit.

-o-

_Eight hours later_.

Sherlock sat with his back against the pier and passed his hand through his overgrown, matted hair for the 138th time that hour. He felt the strap of his violin case against the fingers of his other hand and wondered if he could sell it. What did he need a violin for when it could pay for weeks of cocaine? He then looked down at his coat (the only present he ever accepted from Mycroft, partly because it was very cold when he got it, and partly because it looked insanely cool) and wondered if he could sell that. He wanted cocaine. It was the only thing he wanted, and he could never want anything more. Life was not worth it when he wanted cocaine this desperately.

"Idiot, idiot, idiot," He muttered at himself. He burned his entire stash five minutes after Lestrade left, but he had been stupid back then. How could he think of doing that? Was it worth it, being a damn _Consulting Detective_, if he had to give up his cocaine? Of course it wasn't. What was he thinking? A shudder passed through his back and he wiped his eyes shakily his hand. It felt wet. He didn't notice that he'd been crying. Suddenly, a different thought hit him.

'_None of what you're thinking is real,_' a rational voice in his head said, _'you're addicted. It will stop in about two weeks. Being a Consulting Detective __**is**__ worth it. You're stronger than this. Hang in there.'_ Sherlock noticed that the rational voice in his head sounded annoyingly like Mycroft.

He checked the soles of his shoes again to see if the stashes were still there. He could remember burning them, and he could remember checking three hours ago, but he checked again anyway now. Then he checked his pockets, then his socks, then his violin case.

He definitely should sell his violin. He picked up his case and started running towards the nearest tube station. He was halfway there when he realized what he was doing.

There was no escaping it; He needed help.

-o-

_One hour later_.

It took him fifteen horrible minutes to muster the courage to knock on the door.

'_You don't need help. Sell your damn violin and don't let stupid D.I.s convince you that you're not living your life the way you should.'_ Sherlock turned and took two steps away from the door, then took two steps back.

'_Knock already, before your pride ruins your life._' Sherlock took a deep breath and knocked lightly on the door. He saw people walking passed him, probably wondering what such a ragged man was doing in such a good neighbourhood. He knocked again, louder this time. The response came thirty seconds later. The door opened and his brother stood in front of him. Sherlock had never seen him display so much emotion before. Everything from pity to joy crossed Mycroft's face in about half a second. The brothers stared at each other silently for a moment before Sherlock spoke.

"I can't do it," he muttered, looking at the floor. Mycroft was clever enough to figure out what _it_ was without being told. His brother stood aside silently and let Sherlock into the house, the address of which had been written on a note in a pocket of the coat years ago when Sherlock received it. When Sherlock was inside Mycroft closed the door with a shaking hand.

"Sherlock," he said. He opened and closed his mouth a few times, as if trying to say something else but not really knowing what. Then he gave up and pulled Sherlock into a hug. His brother had never hugged him before or since, but on that day he could hardly bring himself to let go.

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><p>Did you like it? Like I said, I usually really dislike my own work, but I'm really starting to like this fic.<p>

Please please please review. Thanks =]


	5. Age Thirty

Sorry about the delay, everyone. I had a hellish week. Anyway, I hope you like the chapter. I'll try to finish the next one sooner.

Sherlock isn't mine.

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><p><strong>4. Age Thirty<strong>

Sometimes nicotine was enough. Most of the time it wasn't.

Sherlock scratched absent-mindedly at the nicotine patches stuck to his left forearm. His head was spinning and he was getting quite irritatingly nauseous. Nicotine overdose symptoms. Perhaps four patches was overdoing it.

His current case was proving to be troublesome. Sherlock had been working on it for a couple of days and he still had nothing to go on. The victim was a woman in her early thirties, found dead with no visible signs of violence. She appeared to have died of a peanut allergy, but there were no peanut products next to her and no signs of peanuts in her mouth. The woman had come to the room to meet a lover, but the lover himself was seen at a local supermarket at the same time.

The husband was in Italy.

And the nicotine did nothing but give him a headache.

Dammit.

The patches sped up Sherlock's thinking and cleared his mind, allowing him to ignore the small noises outside and concentrate on the case. This time they were not strong enough. The answer felt just out of reach, and every time he thought he might be getting closer a noise outside or a stray thought would distract him and he would lose his trail of thought entirely. He needed something stronger than nicotine or he would never be able to solve this case. He wondered absent-mindedly if he should go back to cocaine. This was a regular occurrence. In fact, a day had not gone by in the past five years without Sherlock silently wondering if he should go back to cocaine.

The fact that there was a stash hidden inside the couch he was sitting on also didn't help. Sherlock told himself to stop being so pathetically obsessive and returned his thoughts to the case. How could she have died of a peanut allergy in a room with no peanuts in it? He suddenly heard the front door of his flat open. Valerie, his flatmate for the past three months, had obviously returned from work. The woman, a law student in her late twenties, entered the living room and stared at him.

"Four patches? That's a first."

"Tough case." Sherlock liked having Valerie as a flatmate. She was not a complete imbecile, and she was very responsible, so there was always coffee in the house. She also let him do pretty much whatever he wanted (except for experimenting in her room. Sherlock learnt not to do that on their first week together).

"We have to pay the gas bill. Do you have money?"

"Mhm," Of course, no one was perfect. Valerie had a knack for choosing the worst possible time to discuss boring, mundane things like bills.

"Was that a yes?"

"Mhm,"Couldn't she see he was in the middle of the most perplexing case he had ever had? Sherlock tried to concentrate on it again.

"Sherlock!" Severe peanut allergy sufferers can die from being exposed to minute amounts of peanuts. It's also a very quick death. The murderer (because it **had** to be murder) had obviously killed her with a small amount of peanuts, but how could he make it undetectable?

"Are you listening to me?"

OH.

Sherlock eyes widened.

"It was the lover."

"What?" Valerie frowned. Sherlock rose from his chair and approached his flatmate. He was fairly certain about his deductions, but he still needed to test if it was possible.

"Valerie," He started, "I need you to know that what I'm about to do is extremely important to me." Then he leaned in and kissed her on the mouth. He had never kissed anyone before, and now he really couldn't see what the fuss was about. It was too wet, and why would anyone want someone else's tongue in their mouth like that? Valerie kissed him back, placing a soft hand on his cheek. After about five seconds Sherlock broke contact. Only then did Valerie seem to understand what had just happened. The woman was staring at him with her eyes wide. Sherlock looked as she gulped in surprise and gave him a slightly questioning look.

Sherlock grinned madly.

"Brilliant," he said, "Thank you very much."

It was the lover. He had come in and kissed her after eating peanuts. It would only take a little bit to kill the woman, and she probably swallowed her saliva so the police found nothing. The lover then ran out and was seen in a supermarket. The whole murder couldn't have taken more than thirty seconds. Brilliant.

Sherlock strode out of the house and took the first taxi he saw to Scotland Yard.

-o-

_One week later_.

_BANG!_

"**SHERLOCK!**" The cry came from downstairs. Sherlock ignored it. He carefully aimed his handgun above the last hole he made and slowly counted in his head.

'_One, two, shoot,_'

_BANG!_ The sound reverberated through the room and Sherlock smiled humourlessly at the perfect _SH_ he had carved into the wall with bullets. He was** so** bored.

"Sherlock!" Valerie burst into the room. Sherlock glared at her.

"I told you not to enter when the door's closed," He said sulkily.

"What the hell did you do?" The long-suffering woman looked at the wall and gasped.

"What do you think I did?"

"Did you just carve your initials into our wall?"

"**My** wall. And why did you bother asking if you already knew?" Sherlock's hatred for stupid questions increased tenfold when he was in a bad mood.

"Where did you even get a gun?" Sherlock glared at her. He raised his gun again, aimed it carefully and pulled the trigger.

_BANG!_

"No!" Valerie shouted.

"Bored."

_BANG!_

"**Bored!**" It didn't often get this bad; Most of the time the boredom was manageable, but every once in a while it would get physically painful. He felt as if his mind was scratching itself raw. He wanted to throw himself out of a window just for the momentary rush of adrenaline. He shot the wall because the noise made his heart beat faster, if only for a second. Valerie didn't understand any of this, obviously.

"You can't randomly shoot walls! What if I were on the other side?" Valerie exclaimed.

"Then my day would become infinitely more interesting."

"What do you mean?" The woman looked scandalized.

"Well, you would have to be on the outside of the building, hovering at a height of three storeys off the ground," Sherlock said, looking at her as if she had disappointed him with her stupidity, "I would find that quite intriguing." Valerie sat across from him on a different sofa and Sherlock looked back at the wall.

"Would you even care if you accidentally shot me?"

"Hm?" Sherlock didn't hear her. He was too busy wondering how long it would take to add an _ERLOCK_ to the _SH_ already on the wall.

"Do you care about me at all?"

"Of course I do," Sherlock muttered, not looking at her, "Who would share rent with me if something happened to you?" Unfortunately, Sherlock really did need a flatshare. Most of his cases were with Scotland Yard, and therefore unpaid, and he spent the money he did have paying cab fares.

"Sherlock?" Valerie asked quietly. Sherlock noticed absent-mindedly that she was using a strange soft tone that she had never used when talking to him before.

"Hm?"

"Can you look at me, please?" Sherlock's icy eyes met Valerie's brown ones.

"What is it?" The woman licked her lips and averted her eyes. She looked nervous.

"You kissed me a week ago. I think we should talk about that." Where did **this** come from? Wasn't she busy reprimanding him for shooting the wall just a moment ago?

"I…" Sherlock started, "Did I?" He thought about it for a few more seconds, "**OH**! Yes! Right. Experiment, for a case."

"Excuse me?"

"It was an experiment. Didn't I make that clear at the time?"

"N-No, you didn't!" Valerie stammered, her cheeks were turning a deep shade of red, "How could you even… I thought you… You idiot, Sherlock!"

"I'm not an idiot!" Sherlock shot back.

"I really thought you…" She turned away from him, "Stupid, stupid idiot." Did she really think he meant anything by that kiss?

"I'm the idiot?" Sherlock asked and rose from his chair, "I'm not the one who's delusional, am I?"

"Can you blame me?" Tears spilled from Valerie's eyes, making Sherlock even more uncomfortable. He didn't mean to hurt her, but it really was her fault for misunderstanding something so obvious. "You played with my emotions!"

"I didn't! Your **imagination** did that!" At that she spun around, slapped him in the face, wrenched the gun out of his hand and pointed it between his eyes. Sherlock took a step back.

"That's it," She said, "I've had enough of you."

"Valerie," Sherlock started, his hands raised. His heart was suddenly beating again, he felt adrenaline coursing through his veins. He knew it was wrong, but he couldn't help thinking that this was way more fun than shooting the wall. "You might want to put the gun down."

"No," She replied icily, "because this is the only voluntary eye contact you've made with me since you moved in, and I want you to keep looking at me. Now listen, you will pack up your things and you will leave this flat. If anything is still here when I get back from work tomorrow evening, I will set fire to it. Is that clear?" She cocked the gun and Sherlock wondered where she learnt to shoot.

"Crystal."

_BANG!_ The bullet went through the wall behind Sherlock's head. A second later he felt something very hard hit his shoulder. Valerie had hurled the gun at him.

"Ouch!" He cried, massaging his soon-to-be-bruised arm.

"You deserve it!" The woman spun on her heel and left the room. Sherlock suddenly noticed he was shaking.

-o-

_The morning after_.

"Mike, do you have a shed?" Sherlock did not have to look up from his microscope to know that it was Mike Stamford who had just entered the room. The time was around 11 a.m. and Sherlock was researching the effects of different brands of shampoo on blood coagulation.

"Hello to you too, Sherlock," The other man answered. He laid his briefcase on a nearby chair, "And that really depends what you want it for."

"I need to store some… things. Nothing strange."

"When you say _nothing strange _do you actually mean _human skulls_ or things that **I** would call non-strange?" Mike was one of the only people at Barts who would talk to Sherlock. He didn't seem to care that the other man was a self-proclaimed sociopath and probably a little bit autistic. Sherlock, in return, tried not to be too horrible to him.

"No, the human skull stays with me," The other man replied matter-of-factly, "I meant a chemistry set, bed sheets, a cushion… Actually, maybe two cushions… I think there's also a chair that's mine…"

"Sherlock, don't you have a flat for those things?"

"Well," Sherlock finally raised his eyes from the sample in the microscope, "I kind of got a little bit evicted." Mike laughed.

"_Kind of got a little bit evicted_? What's that supposed to mean?"

"That Valerie pointed a gun at my face and told me she'll set my belongings on fire if I don't leave," Sherlock said. Mike gawped at him.

"She pointed a **gun **at your **face**?"

"That's hardly relevant right now," Mike's expression suggested that he begged to differ, "I need a place to put my stuff."

"I guess you can use my shed if you want… Are you going to try to find another flat?" Sherlock sighed and went back to his microscope.

"I've found a flat already. It belongs to an old client of mine. I can't afford it alone, though."

"So you're looking for another flat share?"

"I guess."

"I'll keep my eyes peeled for possible candidates."

"I'm not hopeful. I'm a very difficult man to find a flatmate for," That was an understatement. Sherlock had been sharing flats for about four years, and Valerie was flatmate number twenty-nine.

"Well, you tend to be a little difficult to put up with," It was Mike's turn to make an understatement. Sherlock smiled. Valerie had been the twentieth person to tell him he's an idiot before evicting them (the remaining nine used much more explicit terms), and the third to point a gun at him. '_Difficult to put up with'_ indeed.

"I know it's difficult, but I'm sure you'll find someone eventually," The man rose from his desk, "I'm going to get lunch, want me to get you something?"

"What day is it?" Sherlock asked.

"Wednesday."

"No thank you, I'm fine."

Mike left the room. He had offered to help, but he didn't know if Sherlock would ever find a flatmate who didn't become homicidal after a few weeks. He wasn't too hopeful, to be honest.

* * *

><p>What did you think? Do you like it?<p>

Next chapter coming soon!

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**EDIT: 30/12/2011**

I know I haven't updated in a really long time, but don't give up on me! I am still alive and honestly do plan to continue (and finish this story). Next chapter coming soon (I hope).


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